Patents on Peripherals

Words enough. Wouldn't you say? Choices. Dying lightning bugs in my jar. I can see it the dark if I have to. Or I can be blind if that is what I want.

The trigger in the seat of her pants. Longing to be squeezed. The bullets in the bend of her thighs. Hoping to penetrate.

Time with its hot cattle prod pushes the hours forward. There are no cowboys anymore. To coral the strays. Nothing to spur the steeds to run. No needles to fat with sacrifice to mend this fraying skin.

The tabloid of touch is all we have now. While I stare up at stars I can no longer name.

The lie has a certain grace when at last you realize the lie is all you have. Stale Saturn's tease the moon. The moon bullies the stars. Until all these clothes are useless. The kaleidoscope of touch bends. Breaks what we were. Into pieces small enough to swallow.

The disease makes us better. If we can allow it.

The irony of flightless birds finally makes sense.